The Arms of Desperation
by thisislandgirl
Summary: He was lost, drowning in storm of overlapping emotions, being drug under before he ever got a breath . . . NickKeppler, Spoilers for Season 7. Warning: Character Death


**The Arms of Desperation**

**Pairing: **Nick/Keppler

**Rating: R**

**Warnings: Character Death**, violence, language, soft sex, Season 7 spoilers

**Disclaimers: **I don't own CSI or anything related to it, though I desperately wish I did. And I screwed with the time/plot lines of "Laws of Gravity". Oops. And there's Woobie!Nick.

**Summary: **He was lost, drowning in storm of overlapping emotions, being drug under before he ever got a breath . . .

**A/N: ** Written for starbright73, enjoy sweetie. It didn't turn out exactly how I'd have liked, but I hope you enjoy. And I hope you cry. evil grin And thank you to vicxntric for the evil plot bunny.

**The Arms of Desperation**

Sighing, he rolled the tension out of his shoulders as he made his way through the halls of the lab. Having dropped off the last of his trace evidence for analysis, Nick wanted nothing more than to go home and take a hot shower, then hit his bed curled up next to a warm body. He hadn't seen Mike all night and while he knew he shouldn't be worried, that little selfish part of his heart couldn't help it. It was instinctual to protect something so close to your heart. And given Mike's strange, almost distant attitude the passed few days, he thought he was justified. He was almost done for the night, only a few papers that needed his signature down in the morgue, then he was out of there. Maybe Mike was waiting for him at his house . . .

Coming around the corner, he side-stepped two paramedics as they rolled a stretcher, blankets stretched over its length try to hide the body beneath, towards the elevators. He heard a sob coming from the lobby, a woman's wail of desperation. And was the Grissom's voice he heard comforting her? Normally he would investigate, offer up his help if need be, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted to go home.

As he stepped into the locker room, he pulled out his cell, dialing a now familiar number. After five unanswered rings the call went to voicemail. A small, uncomfortable lump began to form in the pit of his stomach, the one that told him something wasn't right. Trying to push it aside was harder than he would have liked to admit. He'd only known Mike a few weeks, but there was just something there, a special connection they had that brought them closer together than any physical act could get them, though they had tried. And most of the time it was great. It didn't have a title, they were just together. Two men with haunted pasts looking for a brighter future and love along the way.

Nick couldn't help the smile and the pink blush that climbed up his cheeks as he thought of their first time together. A fight for dominance, clashing teeth, and sweat slicked bodies crashing to the floor when it was all over. When he came to, his head was pillowed on Mike's chest, surprised to find fingers gently running over his scalp in a soothing, intimate manner. It was in that moment he knew that all the bad blood between them had disappeared, the slate wiped clean. That was two weeks ago. And nothing had been the same since then.

Pulling his gun out of the holster and unloading the magazine, he stowed it away in his locker before he tried calling Mike again. Still getting no answer, he decided to head down to the morgue and fill out his paperwork. Maybe Mike just got stuck out on a scene and couldn't answer his phone. Or maybe he had left his phone in the truck. There were a thousand possibilities. There was no reason to jump to bad conclusions yet.

Reemerging in the hallway he was pleased to hear the sobs had turned to sniffles and the paramedics, with somber faces, were taking their now empty stretcher back outside. It was highly unusual for the paramedics to bring a body to the morgue, even if the death had happened en-route. Shrugging off his curiosity, he continued down the stairs, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips, the one that accompanied his girlish, fluttery feelings when thinking of his man.

He remembered the first time he felt a connection with him, when Keppler became Mike and the lines began to blur. It was the second night they had gotten together, once again alcohol induced but no longer out of a pure, primal need for physical satisfaction but rather for the need for human connection. He had insisted that Mike sleep there since they had imbibed more than the legal limit of spirits. It was another nightmare plagued night . . .

_He woke with a gasp, a sheen of sweat glistening his skin and chilling him to the bone. Pulling the covers tighter around him, he realized for the first time that the bed was empty, the pillow next to his head had long ago gone cool. It was no big deal but the thought that he had once again been left alone still stung more than he would ever confess. He tried to push those feelings aside, tried to roll over and slip back into the ever elusive arms of sleep. But after an eternity of tossing and turning, he threw the covers off and slipped on a pair of sweat pants and his sweatshirt hanging on the door._

_Padding out into the living room barefoot, he saw a figure on the couch outlined by the daylight peeking in from the closed blinds. His breath caught in his throat and he was mentally preparing a plan of attack when the head turned, highlighting Keppler's face. He never said a word, no that wasn't Keppler's style, but his actions spoke loud and clear. Eyes glittering with tears, a slightly bowed head, and shoulders hunched over under the weight of the past, he turned back to his contemplation of the darkness, his body sliding over the slightest bit to make more room on the couch._

_After coming out of his initial phase of shock, Nick made his way over to the couch. There were a thousand questions lingering on his lips, burning questions, but they all faded at the intense look of sorrow mingled with concern he saw when Keppler turned back to him. He didn't dare break the fragile silence so instead slid his hand onto Mike's thigh, waiting patiently for when the right words would come._

"_Do you have nightmares often?" Mike was once again looking straight ahead into the darkness, his voice a hushed whisper. There was no indication from the inflection of his voice that there was an underlying meaning, but Nick knew there was a certain familiarity in the way he asked the question._

"_Not that much anymore. Just when I'm stressed." Nick heard the quiet acknowledgement, but his attention slipped from that when he saw the tears slipping down the onto Mike's cheek. A hand enveloped his and no more words were needed. Not now anyway._

He was still not sure who had started it, but lips met over the tales of their pasts. Nick learned of Amy, though only learning the vaguest hints of Mike's darkest deeds. And Mike learned of the box, the stalker, the babysitter, and all the other ghosts that haunted Nick in both the daylight and the twilight. Their bodies met, rocking together in a rhythm of passion and desperation. Then, sated and boneless, the held each other closer as undisturbed sleep took them over.

Nick smiled as he recalled that night. He awoke an hour before shift, Mike's head on his shoulder, their fingers and legs entwined in a lover's embrace. That night no alcohol was needed to invite intimacy, it just came naturally. He knew he was putting the cart before the horse, as his father would say, but he felt like he was finally stable, like he had finally found something to keep him grounded.

Ever since _the incident_, he had been on an emotional rollercoaster. Ups and downs, none lasting more than a few seconds before it was on to the next. But now he felt on an even keel. He had hopes that he could do the same for Mike when he was ready. No one else notice, he was sure, ever since that Frank character had turned up, ruining their first breakfast together, Mike had been even more distant. Nick wasn't sure how, but he had a feeling Frank was connected with this murder case Keppler was working on, as well as his past. And it was his hopes that when it all blew over, as it eventually would, that Mike would hand over the reins a little more, let Nick in a little deeper.

Having reached the morgue, Nick nudged open the door, smile still in place. He was about to turn around and head back out, not wanting to bother the medical examiner when he was busy. And though Nick's presence had yet to catch the Doc's attention, something in the coroner's voice gave Nick pause. The words being spoken sent rivers of ice flowing through his veins as his worst fears were confirmed.

"Name: Michael Keppler. Age: 40. Cause of Death: Gunshot wound to the lower chest . . ."

Nick's eyes wandered from Doc Robbin's back to the pale face of his lover under the harsh blue lights of the morgue. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His Mike, the man he'd been sleeping next to that morning, was now lying dead on that unforgiving cold steel table. The sheet draped over slim hips wasn't the soft pale blue one from his bed but rather a glaring white one, standard medical issue, with drying blood on it. It was obvious his wounds had been cleaned but it did nothing to ease the pain for Nick, seeing the gaping bullet holes that stole his lover's life.

He must have made a noise because Doc Robbin's spun around, as did Dave who as bagging Mike's clothes over by the counter. He knew their lips were moving, knew they started advancing towards him, but he didn't stick around long enough to find out what they said. Nick turned around and fled out of the room, stumbling blindly, floundering for his foothold as he ran through the long hallway and up the stairs.

Surprisingly, the first emotion he felt after the initial shock was anger. No, not anger, fury. Rage in its purest form coursing through his veins. The kind that brings even the strongest down on their knees, the kind that makes the perfectly sane go on rampages, makes the rational irrational, the kind that turned Nick into a seething man on a murderous rage.

He burst through the doors at the top of the stairs, stalking through the labyrinth of glass walls with no clue as to his destination. All he could see was red, his blood boiling and his fists aching with the urge to slam into something, to cause harm to something beautiful, the need to destroy. Distantly he heard the quiet sobs again and wanted to scream at the injustice. He stalked passed the lobby, never giving the group of mourners as much as a sideways glance. The hurt and anger were still there, but slowly creeping up on him was suffocating sorrow. And he couldn't let that out yet, not when he had yet to vent the first wave of overwhelming emotions.

A chorus of many voices called out his name, but he was too far gone to heed them. He never stopped his advance for the doors until a strong hand grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop. Without thinking, he came around swinging, aiming at whatever happened to be in his fist's path. Inches before it would have met its target in Jim Brass's face, his fist was caught. Furious he snapped his head to the side to meet Warrick's smoldering glare. His friend's lips moved, and judging by the harshness of their movement, the words were full of anger and demanding answers. But Nick heard none of it. He could hear nothing over the pounding of his heart and Mike's whispered endearments in the throes of their consummations.

It wasn't until another hand landed on his should that he was aware of the others standing around him. Grissom, his ever calm façade shaken up, blue eyes studying closely. Catherine, eyes red with tear tracks running down her cheeks. Sara and Greg, both were looking highly unsure of the circumstances but obviously upset. Jim, looking ruffled and sorrowful. And Warrick, his furious expression melting until his brow creased in concern.

"Nick?"

The world suddenly zoomed back into focus, the quiet murmur that had taken over the building met his ears as all eyes focused on him. Guilt crashed over him then but when he turned back to utter and apology, nothing came forth. His breathe hitched in his chest, tears flooded his eyes as his knees grew suddenly weak, his nausea finally catching up with him. And it was then that he noticed his fist, still held in Warrick's grip, was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

He turned away from them and stumbled out the door, leaving their concerned voices and their consolatory touches behind him. He wanted to be angry, wanted to sob at the injustice of the world, wanted to hate his friends for trying to placate him. And while he felt all of it, he couldn't focus on them. He was lost, drowning in storm of overlapping emotions, being drug under before he ever got a breath.

Once outside in the dawning daylight, he was able to stop. The world was strangely silent, at least it was in this little corner. He willed his legs to stop shaking, willed the tears back, willed his mind to clear. But he never got the chance to collect himself as he heard the door behind him open. The rustle of clothing and the gentle thud of shoes on the pavement signaled the arrival of his friends. And while they all came out, only one advanced up behind him.

The moment the hand landed on his shoulder he knew it was Warrick. Strong and supportive, but not demanding. The hand just settled on his shoulder, allowing him the option to walk away or to seek comfort, whichever he should choose. Nick closed his eyes and bit his lip hard as the tears consumed him once again. And try as hard as he might, he couldn't hold in the sob that was ripped from his throat. The hand tightened on his shoulder before he was pulled into an embrace. His hands instinctively covered his face as fought for control.

"What happened?" His voice was raspy and strained but managed to be heard between the tears. "What happened to him?"

He could hear the rest of the group advance and quickly pulled away from the arms holding him. The anger was back again, bubbling beneath a hastily complied calm façade. Wiping away the tears in a futile attempt to erase the passed few moments, he slowly met Grissom's gaze.

"Who did this to him? What happened?!"

"It was Frank, Nicky." Catherine reached her hand out to grasp his but he quickly back away, shaking his head and throwing his hands out in front of him, warding them off. He couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it. But it was the only thing that made sense. "Keppler-"

"Mike!" Nick interrupted. He saw the looks on their faces, the looks of complete understanding, but he couldn't care less at the moment.

"Mike," Catherine continued "saved a girl, a prostitute, from Frank. Evidently she was the only witness to the murder of the retired cop. He saved her life, Nicky."

Nick swallowed thickly. He couldn't say anything, just stared blankly at his friends.

"We tried to save him, Nick. The paramedics did their best, but they were too late. There was too much damage, too much blood lost. They did everything-"

"No!" Nick cut off Grissom's placating speech. No. That's what they told you when they wanted you to think they gave their best effort. It's what they told you when it was apparent from the beginning that the bleeding body they were in charge of was a goner. "Where is he?"

Silence was his only answer, though he could see by the look in their eyes, the way they shifted their gaze away from him, that they knew. They knew and yet they wouldn't tell him. It only served to add more fuel to his fire.

"Where the hell is the bastard?!" Nick clenched his hands into fists. He wanted nothing more than to rip Frank limb from limb. To make him suffer as Mike had suffered in his last moments. To make him suffer as Nick himself was suffering at this very moment, like he would suffer for years. "Where the fuck is he?!"

Warrick and Jim were immediately holding him back again, both physically and emotionally. But there was no need after Grissom uttered the last words that Nick wanted to hear. "He's dead." Nick's body stiffened for a moment before he deflated like a sail, slipping bonelessly down to the ground to rest on his knees. They sank down with him as the rest of the group quickly advanced, concern for their friend overriding the sudden fear he had instilled in them.

He was drained but the sobs came anyway. Tears coursing down his cheeks as he buried his head in Warrick's shoulder, his hands fisting in the man's shirt and he hung on for dear life. They weren't the arms he wanted holding him, it wasn't the shoulder he wanted to lean against, but when the realization that Mike was dead washed over him again, he had no choice but to melt fully into them. And as he fell into the arms of desperation and sorrow, the arms of his friends tightened on Nick, vowing to keep him afloat.


End file.
